Page 33 of The Jasad Crown

His emissary’s gaze transformed with resigned longing, not unlike how Arin might have looked as he searched for a glimpse of the sun amid the clouds.

The tension returned to Arin’s jaw. She typically hid this… problem… better. She was out of sorts today, and Arin didn’t have the time or patience to manage another conversation.

Arin stopped walking, turning fully to face her. As soon as she met his eyes, the longing in hers dimmed, retreating as Arin knew it would.

A strong leader played every advantage they were given to its greatest potential. Arin’s looks were nothing more than a lure, and one he rarely bothered to use. Unless he devoted himself to the deception, Arin’s eyes would always give him away.

Cold. Removed. Inhospitable to anything tender or soft.

Movement slid into his periphery just as he opened his mouth to ask Layla if she had any further matters to discuss.

Arin went still as stone.

It couldn’t be.

In the shadow of the east wing, a woman stood on the grass. Her back was turned to Arin. Black curls cascaded over her broad shoulders, loose in a way Arin knew she disliked. She turned slightly, facing the tower, and a rough sound scraped and died in his throat.

No. No, she wouldn’t be this stupid. She knew better.

The woman who couldn’t be the Jasad Heir stepped toward the side of the east wing and poked it.

Arin took a step forward. His hand slid into the left pocket of his coat, closing around the thin, needlelike blade. It would immobilize her long enough for the right restraints and reinforcements to arrive.

His hand spasmed around the knife.

This wasn’t real. She would never be this reckless.

Fighting the dryness of his mouth, Arin said, “Layla, turn around slowly and tell me what you see.”

The Jasad Heir–shaped hallucination crouched and pressed her palms to the grass. She patted the ground with increasing panic.

“Um, there are guards patrolling the gate. A bluebird hiding in the bushes. A cloud of gnats by the garden’s archway.”

Layla couldn’t see her. Layla couldn’t see her, which meant she wasn’t here. Either Arin had gone mad in the last ten minutes, or some strange magic was afoot. But Arin’s sensitivity to magic meant he never failed to see the edges of a glamor or sense the charge of it in the air, and everything aside from the hallucination of the Jasad Heir remained perfectly normal.

“My lord, are you all right?”

Capturing Essiya of Jasad at the Citadel’s door after she managed to hide her identity from Arin for months defied every tenet of logic. It made more sense to assume he’d gone mad.

The hallucination scrunched her face in familiar frustration.

“Sire!” Layla’s shout sent the bluebird into flight. Sylvia’s head snapped up. Arin’s hand went still against the knife as wide dark eyes found his. Eyes he’d watched light in anger and dance with humor, eyes that were never cold or removed.

Eyes that had once felt warmer against his skin than the sun ever could.

A small hand closed around Arin’s forearm. His attention snapped to the point of contact, and whatever expression he wore was severe enough for Layla to retract her hand instantly.

In the split second of distraction, the hallucination vanished. Arin scanned the courtyard. Nothing. As though she was never there.

Pale breath shuddered out of Arin. After another minute, he tore his reluctant gaze from the grass.

He didn’t have time to lose his mind. He had a war to avoid.

“Forgive me,” Arin told Layla. He adopted a soothing, intimate tone. It would derail several of Arin’s plans if Layla joined the ranks of those who believed his judgment was impaired. “I slept little last night and thought I saw a stranger on the premises. I did not intend to handle you roughly.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Your Highness. You can handle me however you like.” As soon as the words left Layla’s mouth, a fierce blush stole over her cheeks. Arin pretended not to notice.

The bell tolled the hour, and Arin firmly guided his attention away from one dangerous realization.

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